He suddenly wanted nothing more than for this whole conversation to be over. Lucien halted him with a hand on his upper arm. Ian looked at his brother, anger—that old, familiar companion—starting to bubble beneath the surface of his calm façade. Not anger at Lucien, but at some unknown, vague grayness that seemed to return in that moment to press down on him like a suffocating pall.

I can’t escape it, no matter how hard I’ve been trying to for the past week, since the second you looked into Francesca’s startled, glistening eyes as she stood in that reception line.

“You’re my brother. She’s my mother,” Lucien hissed. “Of course I want my family to meet someday. You’re not Trevor Gaines, Ian.”

The fury reared in him, seeming to constrict his throat. He jerked Lucien’s hold off him, a snarl shaping his mouth. He had that tight, hot feeling in his chest again that made breathing difficult. When he turned, he saw Francesca standing in the hallway, a startled expression on her face. He froze. Half of her face was radiant from sunshine, the other cast in a shadow from the grand staircase.

“Lucien? The car is here.” Her gaze narrowed on Ian. She took a step toward him. “Ian? Are you all right? What is it?”

He didn’t reply. Too much emotion had erupted in him too quickly. He walked ahead of both of them to the Great Hall and started up the stairs, taking two at a time. He’d already said his good-byes to Elise, and he couldn’t force himself to take part in small talk at the moment. He did his best to ignore the sensation of Francesca’s dubious, worried stare at his back.

* * *

It was technically too cold to ride a motorcycle, but Ian dressed for it, and the winter day was sunny and unseasonably mild, the temperature inching up to the high thirties. When he saw more than a half dozen press vans outside the main entrance security gate, he cursed bitterly under his breath and thought of turning around. His grandfather had told him that several news stations had called his secretary this morning about the shooting at Belford Hall yesterday, asking for interviews and a statement. James had denied requests for interviews, but he and Ian had come up with a basic statement, saying that all the visitors at the press conference and the family were safe, and deferring to the Stratham police for official news of the crime. The break-in and shooting had been made all that much more sensationalistic because it involved an earl, his heir to the title, and Ian himself, who had been making a reappearance on the business scene. In addition, the crime had happened during a well-publicized and well-attended press conference, the gunshot itself being picked up by press cameras. According to Anne, the press conference and chilling gunshot interruption were being replayed continually on national and local stations.

Screw it, Ian thought, waving a hand at Cromwell at the security gate, and turning onto the road a moment later. The press didn’t know who was behind the black helmet with the face visor. Although certainly many of the people who lived locally knew that the earl’s grandson was fond of motorcycles, he noticed that the majority of the vans were from London stations. If they chose to chase him, let them. He was edgy and restless enough to crave a challenge. Besides, he’d blow them away on the sleek MV Agusta he straddled.

He ripped past the vans parked on the side of the road at a lightning-fast pace, actually half hoping one or several would follow. He saw only a couple surprised, pale faces peer at him from the vehicle windows, none of them alight with the thrill of a chase, however.

The chill air rushing past him as he roared down the country roads was sufficient for clearing his head, though, seeming to blow out some of his anger and crystalize his thoughts.

He craved some numbing off.

By the time he returned to Belford, he felt frozen to the bone, but calmer, and more resolved. He used a back entrance to the grounds. Although relatively few people knew about the gravel road through the trees, Ian was gratified to see one of the security guards his grandfather had hired manning it. He returned the motorcycle he and Gerard had once mechanically enhanced to the chauffeur and mechanic, Peter. While he and Peter were talking about the Agusta’s performance, he received a phone call. Seeing it was Detective Markov calling, he walked away to take it.

Twenty minutes later, he found James alone looking over some ledgers in the sitting room.

“I’m working in here instead of my office for the time being,” James explained after they’d greeted one another. “Anne wants to send off the carpet in my office to have it cleaned . . .” He faded off reluctantly, and Ian knew he meant cleaned of Anton Brodsik’s blood. “But I spoke to Detective Markov about it, and he said to hold off making any major changes or using the room until they’ve finalized their investigation.”

“I just got off the phone with Markov.”

“Did you?” James asked, immediately interested. “Any news?”

“Yes. Considerable,” Ian said, sitting down in an upholstered chair near the desk where James worked. “They’ve done ballistics reports, and it seems that the gun Brodsik pulled on Gerard yesterday was definitely the same weapon that killed Shell Stern.”

“So . . .” James said slowly. “Brodsik decided he didn’t want to share any of the pie with his partner.”

“Either that or they had a falling out over something else,” Ian said.

“Does Markov have any indication whatsoever that another person was involved?”

“No. None.”

James’s astute gaze narrowed on his grandson. “But you don’t believe him?”




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